


Steve Rogers Keeps His Socks on When He's Making Whoopie

by astrapoetica



Series: Steve Rogers Keeps His Socks On When He's Making Whoopie [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, romanogers - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-11 03:12:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10453662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astrapoetica/pseuds/astrapoetica
Summary: Steve and Natasha find comfort in each other after the credits roll in Age of Ultron. Also known as: that one time Steve Rogers lost his virginity while Natasha kept one very important secret from him.Oh, and trigger warnings for unprotected sex. If that bothers you, you really should not read this. Otherwise happy reading!





	

**Author's Note:**

> So I've had this weird coda for Steve/Natasha running through my head since Age of Ultron, and I can't get out of my mind. So here it is.

"Now I need you to turn this bird around okay? We can't track you in stealth mode, so help me out, I need you to..." And then nothing, silence resounding as the communications panel in the Quinjet is purposefully cut off.

Natasha shuts her eyes, memories washing over her that she can't seem to shake. Why did she ever think it was a good idea to try to open up to someone, to try to share her past with them, to trust them...

She was so stupid. And now Bruce is gone. And with him the last bit of the vulnerable, idiotic girl she had been.

Once upon a time, during her training, she had made the mistake of going easy on one of her opponents. She had been all of nine years old, and the other girl had already been injured earlier in the week in a previous bout. She was limping when she stepped up to the mat across from Natasha, her dishwater blond hair hanging stringily in her face. Natasha could count each rib plucking out against her thin white cotton t-shirt. Natasha was a predator and could almost smell it on the other girl - the lack of will to live. She was giving in to death and the inevitable. And she knew the other girls in the Red Room could smell it on her too. And just like animals they were all circling her, waiting for the opportunity to eliminate the weakest link in their pack.

So when they fought, she let the girl compensate for her injury to her foot, she ducked and dodged, didn't hit back as hard as she could have. Wasn't watchful and careful like she should have been. Not until the other girl tricked her, got her face down on the mat, pulled her arm up and backwards at an impossible angle. The pain was as sharp as it was embarrassing. 

Her instructor's voice rang out, calling for them to stop. The other girl did not, just continued with a feral gleam in her eyes, stale unwashed breath hot on Natasha's cheek. 

A shot rang out, and the girl slumped forward, her eyes still open with that manic gleam. Blood dripped from her forehead, and Natasha scrambled out from beneath her inert body. The other girls were dismissed after that, but the instructor made Natasha stay and clean the blood from the floor while she berated her.

She could still hear her instructor's voice ringing out in Russian: "Sympathy is a trick. It is a lie. The world is a harsh place, they are waiting for you to stumble so they can have their opportunity. Trust, friendship, love, these are all just tricks in their bag. Remember this day my little red bird, remember it's lesson well. All you have is yourself. So hide your weaknesses well." Her instructor had gotten down into her face then, staring at her. "You have potential, Natasha. This is why I have saved you. Don't make me sorry." 

She tries to shove the painful memories away, taking another sip of her cosmopolitan. She's sitting at the bar in the common area and trying to relax after several hours of training their new recruits. It's a bad stereotype, drinking alone. Rogers had already caught her staring blankly at a wall earlier in the day, and that had been mortifying enough. She had quickly made up a joke about him and Stark staring into each other's eyes to cover up for her slip. So why is she drinking in the common area where anyone could walk in and find her? It seems like stupid decisions were her new M.O. She figures that she was about due for them though. After a lifetime of caution and secrecy, she deserves a moment or two of being foolish. What's the worst that could happen?

Grinning, she takes another sip from her cosmopolitan. The song on the radio changes into some slow sad song, "Kiss me once then kiss me twice, It's been a long, long time." She wonders what's going to become of Barnes. He has to have gone pretty far to ground if Rogers hasn't been able to find him yet. Maybe that's a blessing in disguise though. Sometimes digging up the past is a mistake. People often aren't what you remember. The world moves on, as she had said to Fury earlier in the day, "Nothing lasts forever."

The song keeps crooning on with it's slow sweet melody, "You'll never know how many dreams I've dreamed about you." Natasha relaxes back against the cushiness of the bar chair, letting her mind slip into blank nothingness.

The main door to the lounge wooshes open. She turns her head, the words "Speak of the Devil," getting caught in her throat and never making it out into the real world. As if bidden by the old timey music, Rogers is standing there, looking slightly uncomfortable in khaki slacks and a blue button up. Strange how he always looks uncomfortable in street clothes. In his Cap gear he's tall, commanding, and in-charge. Always knows just what to do and when. But put that man in regular clothes and he turns into a hot, fidgeting mess.

Emphasis on the hot, she thinks to herself. She coughs a bit to clear her throat, willing her mind away from a dangerous track. She knows that Rogers has no interest in her. And after what's just happened with Bruce, she's in no hurry to get entangled with someone else.

"So," she says, tossing her short red curls back a bit and trying to lighten the mood with a joke. "Come here often?"

The joke has its desired effect. Rogers gives a short little laugh, relaxing just a bit. He walks further into the room, coming to a stop next to her and leaning against the bar. "I hope I'm not interrupting."

Natasha looks pointedly around at all the emptiness. "Oh yeah, you're totally cramping my style Rogers. Stop getting in the way of all these hot men throwing themselves at me."

Rogers tips his head in acknowledgment and gives a dry laugh. "I meant interrupting your alone time. Sort of in short supply in our lives."

She takes another sip of her drink. "Yeah well we don't always get what we want." She looks at him, still standing there awkwardly. "Stop staring at me and just get a drink already."

"Doesn't really have the same effect on me," he protests, but gamely goes back behind the bar and opens the fridge that runs beneath.

"You could at least pretend," she retorts, biting back 'just like the rest of us.' She swallows thickly, trying to control the wild storm of emotions in her. People always find her cold and devoid of emotion, but she's actually quite the opposite. She has to maintain her calm facade to hide what's going on beneath the surface. If she lets the mask slip even just a bit, she worries about what will happen.

She looks over at Steve, who is rummaging with the bottles in the fridge, and thinks that perhaps him and her have that in common.

"Aha!" he crows in victory, pulling out a bottle that is nearly empty. It's a clear jar with delicate runes etched onto it and designs swirling around. The amber liquid in the bottom swishes around. 

"Thor's mead huh?" Natasha laughs. "Can't believe there's any of that left." 

"Probably just enough," Rogers replies, pouring it into a glass. He takes a short pull on it, letting out a relieved sigh after. 

"Must be nice to be able to find something that can get you drunk." 

He shrugs in a non-committed kind of way. "Just never thought I would be able to again." It sounds like there's a story beneath his casual answer, but she decides to let it go.

Natasha pushes her now empty glass towards him. "Help me out?"

He raises an eyebrow at her. "If you're too drunk to mix your own drinks, then I think you should be cut off."

"Fuck you Rogers," she says, provoking a laugh out of him. He pulls a bottle of vodka out and some cranberry juice, mixing them with triple sec, lime, and ice in a silver tumbler. He pours the drink with a practiced, efficient manner.

"Were you a bartender in your former life?" 

He squeezes a bit of lemon into it, grinning. "I travelled with USO show girls. I definitely know how to make a multitude of drinks." He raises his glass and she clinks her glass against his, a tiny salute between friends.

There's silence for a bit after that, as they both enjoy their drinks. "You going to sit down or what?" Natasha asks him after a minute. His eyes stray towards the door and she cocks an eyebrow at him. "Are you worried people are going to come in here and get the wrong idea?" she asks, chuckling. 

"No," he shakes his head, walking around the bar quickly to sit next to her. She notices that he's looking weirdly pink around the ears though. Interesting. Maybe he isn't as disinterested as she thought. Or maybe something has changed.

"So," she says, casually tilting her glass so the liquid travels around in a circle, "how are things going with that nurse?"

"She wasn't really a nurse," he protests, his accent slipping into something a bit rougher around the edges. Maybe the alcohol really is having an effect on him.

"Whatever she was," Natasha pushes onwards. She fixes him with a stare, gauging his reaction. "How are things going?"

Rogers makes a face at her as if she's being deliberately obtuse. "She wasn't who she said she was."

Natasha shrugs, trying to seem casual when really her heart is beating so fast it feels like it's going to leap out of her chest. Why does his answer mean so much to her? "Why does that matter?"

"The truth matters, Natasha," he replies, draining the rest of his glass and setting it on the counter. He reaches over for the jug, and her eyes follow his movement, his shirt pulling up tight against his body and relaxing as he leans back and pours the last of the mead into his glass. He seems upset, she notices, almost as upset as she is about Bruce.

She wills that last thought away as they sit in another silence, this one a bit less comfortable than the last one.

"Don't know why you're hanging around me then," she says, trying a weak joke. 

"You're actually one of the more honest people I know," he says, drinking more mead down. She watches his throat as swallows, tracking the bob of his Adam's apple.

"Then you really are in trouble," she replies, looking down at her glass. She needs to get her head together, she can't just start staring at Rogers all the time. She must have had a lot more to drink than she thought. 

His hand is suddenly on hers, where she has it rested at the base of her glass on the counter. Startled she looks up at him. His eyes are clear like drowning pools and the intense honesty of his gaze burns through her. "I'm sorry about Bruce," he says.

She isn't sure what to say at first. Trust him to be that direct. Unbidden she feels water flooding to her eyes, and she blinks hard, dragging her hand away from his. "It's not a big deal."

She looks back and Rogers is still staring at her like the big goofy boy scout that he is. "Really," she adds. She shrugs as he continues to stare. "Guess our two monsters just weren't as compatible as I had hoped."

"You aren't a monster." His gaze is open, soft, and she wants to fall into it. It's like he actually believes these lies he's spouting. 

She shakes her head. "Let's talk about something else."

"What else is there to talk about?" He pauses. "There's the recruits, I guess. I'm pretty pleased with how Wanda is coping, actually. She has some real strength. To lose someone like she lost her brother... it's not easy."

She knows he's talking about Barnes, and she doesn't want to go down that road. It's too dark, too messy, too full of the potential for her to have to lie again. To hide what she and Barnes once were to each other. She knows she has to do something serious to derail him, so:

"So did you at least get something out of her lying to you?"

Rogers frowns, and she knows he's confused by her statement.

"The nurse," Natasha laughs. "Or the not-so-nurse. Did you get something out of her lying to you?"

"What on earth do you mean by that?"

She wiggles her eyebrows at him and he turns beet red as he catches her meaning. "Why would I sleep with someone who's lying to me?" 

"Because it's nice, sometimes, to forget." A pause. "You know, for awhile."

"Is that what sex is to you?" he asks, "Just forgetting?"

"It can be."

He doesn't look convinced. She decides to ask the obvious question that's been eating at her for awhile now. She has a bet with Sam on it anyway, and wants to know if she's keeping or losing her $50.

"Are you a virgin Rogers?"

He turns even redder somehow, his flush extending down his neck and disappearing into his shirt. She has the sudden irrational urge to unbutton it and find out how far it goes down. He takes a sudden gulp of mead, a clear sign of stalling.

"You are, aren't you?" 

He rolls his eyes at her. "People weren't just.... nobody was hopping into each other's beds and out of them in 1945!"

She laughs. "I find that hard to believe."

"It just didn't seem important." His ear tips are flaming red, and she wants to reach out and touch them and find out if they're warmer than normal. 

"And you had Peggy," Natasha says, addressing a serious issue Rogers always dodges whenever these conversations arise.

"Yeah, I had Peggy." He stares down into his glass as studiously as if he's trying to read his fortune in it. 

"I know you've been to see her." Natasha can't help herself, she finds herself reaching out, touching his upper arm gently. "I know how hard it is. But you have to start to move on."

He looks over at her and his eyes are glassy like he's holding back tears. "I just always thought it would be her. I always thought... she would be my first."

"I'm sorry Steve," Natasha says, using his first name finally, because this is important, and now tears are slipping out of his eyes. He turns a bit in his chair and suddenly his head is on her shoulder. She leans forward as he rests some of his weight on her. She has her hands up and around his shoulders, holding onto him as he's holding onto her. She strokes his hair as he cries, not a full on cry, but pent up tears and frustration. His hair is soft and silky and he smells like aftershave and clothes fresh out of the dryer. 

After awhile he leans back, his face still dangerously near hers. "Sorry," he mumbles out. He leans back a bit more. "Didn't mean to come here and cry all over you and ruin your...." he searches for the right word. "Evening," he finally settles on, heaving a loud sigh.

"It's fine," she says, willing herself to stop looking at his face and searching for something that just isn't there between them.

He looks over at her, his eyes meeting hers and it's as if he finally sees it, the puzzle pieces slotting into place. "It was my first kiss since 1945," he blurts out "Since you asked."

She laughs. "I figured that much out myself." 

He stares at her and unconsciously licks his lips as she leans closer to him. "Would you like to try again?"

She has long since gathered that Rogers is self conscious about his lack of experience. He's probably thinking he can use her to figure out what women like and then he'll move back onto his secret-agent-not-a-nurse. Or maybe he's just had too much mead and isn't thinking very much at all except with the lower regions of himself. 

He leans towards her without saying anything, but that's pretty much all the response she needs. Their mouths slide against each other and it's soft and slow and not at all what she imagined. The last time they kissed on the escalator, he had been all teeth and nose and startled surprise. Now his lips are plush and pliable, tasting slightly of honey. She has her hand firmly planted on his chest at the top of the buttons on his shirt, the ones she wants to rip open. But she doesn't, because she doesn't want to scare him off, and because he probably needs to go slow.

He makes a noise and suddenly there is the awkwardness again, him and his teeth, overly eager as he tries to open his mouth into hers. She laughs and pushes back. He stares at her startled like he'd forgotten what he was doing. He looks like he's just woken up from a dream, some of his hair is sticking up and his lips are dark and plumped out.

"Go easy," she says, leaning back into him. "Watch out for all the teeth. You don't have to put your whole tongue into my mouth at once."

They start kissing again and he quickly seems to forget himself, his tongue pushing against hers in an unschooled way. It should be revolting, but it's probably the most honest and eager kiss she's ever had, and something in her wonders if this is just the way he kisses. Slowly she works open one button and then another on his shirt, opening her eyes every so often, but he doesn't respond. She has about four buttons undone by the time she feels his hand slide lower, trying to sneak itself up under her shirt. When he makes contact with the bare skin of her back, she lets out a sigh she can't control, sliding forward so far on her barstool she almost falls off.

He catches her, resting his hand slightly above her hip. They stare back and forth at each other, and Natasha realizes she's nearly in his lap.

He looks down suddenly, realizing his buttons are mostly undone. The effect is pretty much ruined by the fact that he's wearing a white undershirt, but he still protests, "When did that happen?"

Natasha tips back her head and laughs, loud and genuine. She feels wild and free, like she always does when she usually does when she's kissing someone. This feels nice and uncomplicated, and after a week of Ultron and non-stop threats of death, and then Bruce, and then Bruce leaving... A nice, long session with a willing partner is exactly what she needs.

She slides out of her barstool and starts to walk away. She turns back and Rogers is staring at her in disbelief. Clearly he's a bit slow on the uptake.

"Where are you going?" he asks.

"You really want to do this here?" She looks pointedly around at the big empty space, a lounge shared by all the Avengers, where anyone could come in at anytime.

He flushes, and she loves it. It's thrilling and addictive, like her own personal brand of heroin. She loves knowing she can have that effect on him, and she wants to keep doing things to him just so she can keep seeing that reaction.

He stands up and she can't help but notice how he moves, trying to hide the hardness in his pants. She grins, turning away, and pretends not to notice. He follows her into the elevator down the hall, and they ride up to the floor with her room in silence. She looks over at him and he looks away. He looks back at her and she looks away. They're like two guilty children stealing cookies and causing mischief, seeing what they can get away with. Natasha's heart is pounding with anticipation and her breath is coming in shallow gasps. She wonders if Rogers really will go through this or if he'll walk away. She'll understand if this is all too much for him, but she hopes that he'll help her forget - if only for 15 minutes. 

She steals another glance at him, his chest seems to be pushing in and out with his breaths more quickly than normal and that dark pinkness in his ears and cheeks is still there. He seems as eager as any teenage boy, but being a super soldier has to mean he'll go longer than a teenager would right? Even if it is his first time. She laughs out loud, and he looks back at her, his eyes questioning. She feels giddy with laughter and what feels suspiciously like happiness. Maybe this really is what it's like to be a teenager. Maybe this is what she missed out on being locked in the Red Room, made to fight other girls like an animal until only one survived. Maybe, maybe, maybe...

The elevator dings open, and she takes his hand, laughing. He follows along and they break into a near run when a door opens somewhere along the hall, Sam's voice ringing out something about getting pizza. He must be talking to Wanda, he had told Natasha he would be keeping an eye on her so she didn't feel alone...

She reaches her room, Steve pressing himself nearly flat on the wall as if they're on some sort of ridiculous recon mission. She puts in her fingerprint code, and the door comes open, both of them stumbling inside, slamming the door behind them as if that isn't going to draw attention. She slides the deadbolt home behind her and collapses against it, breathing hard. Rogers is standing there in front of her, his chest heaving up and down, even though he's almost never out of breath even during battle against aliens and Nazis and...

He comes towards her, putting his hands on either side of the door. His eyes are question marks and Natasha answers them by sliding her hands up and over his chest. His shirt is still ridiculously half undone and she grabs him by the hanging shirt fronts on either side and crushes him to her. His mouth is hot and eager. His teeth are a bit better controlled, but his kiss is still raw and unfinished. He's the least well polished and suave lover she has ever had and for some reason she finds it turns her on more and more as the kisses continue. She slides her hand up and rubs her palm deliberately over one of his nipples and he lets out a loud groan.

It seems like everything she does to him is the first time he's experienced it which is heady and exhilarating. She rubs her palm up and over again and he groans, his hands sliding down her back to her hips and up again, under her shirt this time. The feel of his skin on hers is driving her crazy, his palms flat and broad and his touch firm on the tensed up muscles on her back. 

She pushes him experimentally, and his hands slip from her back as he moves where she wills him. She plants a hand on his chest, steering his backwards. He doesn't even look behind him, his eyes fixed on her face, letting her lead him. He hasn't ever been in her room, but somehow he trusts her to guide him. Her bedroom door is open, and when the back of his legs hit the bed, he sits down obediently. She climbs on top of him, resting herself up on her knees in a crouch. She leans down and kisses him with renewed vigor. 

She pops open the buttons on his shirt, grinning to herself as he tries to push himself up. He's clearly desperate to grind himself on her, but she won't let him. She crouches above him, there but not there, tantalizing and out of reach. She's finding that she loves to torment him, and the frustrated whining noises he makes are utterly delicious. She reaches the final button, pulling his shirt up and out of his pants, followed swiftly by his undershirt, which are thrown back behind her god knows where. She slides forward again, and his kisses are turning more desperate now, even less controlled than the ones before. 

She sucks kisses on his chin, the pulse point in his neck, sliding down his chest to experimentally flick her tongue against one of his nipples. He jerks upward like he's been shocked by an electrical current. 

"You okay?" she asks him, grinning.

"Fuck," he groans, and she wants to tease him about his language, but she wants to keep tasting him more, so she goes to the other side and experimentally flicks her tongue against that nipple. He grunts and groans as she licks at him, his hips pressing upwards to try and get more friction. She kisses the hollow place in the middle of his chest bone, sliding her hand downwards. She looks at him when she puts her hand on his belt buckle - his pupils are blown wide and the flush does definitely travel down that beautiful chest. 

"Alright?" she asks him, checking in. He nods and she slides his belt buckle open. It's a bit of an awkward angle, but she kneels above him as she unzips his pants, sliding her hand under to press him firmly through his underwear. He lets out a long, loud groan, pushing himself up against her. He's thick and firm and long, just as she imagined he would be. 

The pleasant wetness that's started creeping into her is turning electric now with her need and desire. She slides her hand under his underwear band, needing to feel the velvet hardness of his erection. When the flesh of her hand touches his bare skin he tips his head back, full throat on display. She smiles to herself as he turns the control completely over to her. 

She grips the length of him hard, feeling him pulse in her hand, wanting more.

She starts trying to push his underwear and pants off, but is foiled by the fact that he's still sitting on them. She tugs on them a few times before Steve becomes cognizant of her struggle. He looks at her and she smiles. He gives her a lazy smile in return. "Can't get you out of these from this angle," she teases.

He starts to stand, but she's still kneeling on him and gets bounced back a bit. She's startled by the casual strength of him. Sometimes she thinks he forgets just how strong he is.

She moves backwards, standing, as he stands to face her. She slides his pants and underwear downward, kneeling along with them, sucking kisses on his belly. She's kneeling in front of him and his pants are pooled ridiculously near his ankles, trapping him, but his cock is so perfect, she can't resist gripping it, sliding it into her mouth, provoking him to buck into her mouth. His hand is in her hair and she feels so much as hears his gasp of pleasure. His cock is as perfect as the rest of him, gorgeous and pinkly red. He's rock hard though and she wonders if he's going to come right then and then there into her mouth. She grips the base of him, working him in and out, trying to avoid the awkwardness of his pants and underwear.

The wetness is seeping out of her now in full flow. She's never felt so turned on just by sucking someone's cock before, let alone someone still wearing their pants and socks. For her, sex has almost always been perfunctory, a performance she puts on trying to get intel, or pretending to be someone she's not, or just trying to impress a new lover. But this - oh this is new, this raw and untamed need. 

She pulls back, looking up along the hard planes of his body. Steve is staring down at her and she knows she's probably is a sweaty mess with lipstick smears all over his face but he stares at her like she's the most perfect creature he's ever seen. She smiles, wiping her hand at her lips as she stands, trying to get her control back. But he crushes his lips to hers again, and she wonders if he feels it too, this pulsing need she feels.

He nearly trips over his pants, and she laughs as he stumbles out of them, tossing them to the side. His belt makes a loud thwack against the ground, and then he is standing there in nothing but woolly gray socks, and she still has her black pants and slinky top on, and the juxtaposition is hysterical to her. She is laughing as he grips her by her hips, him demanding "What?" But she can't answer because she's laughing so hard.

He kisses her then, hot and hard and needy. She kisses back, his hands sliding under her shirt. She lifts it up and tosses it away. He stares at her in her plum bra, running his hands up and down her sides, sliding up her back to tug at her bra. "The front," she tells him, sliding his hands there and helping him to unhook it. Her breasts swing free, and he's cupping her now, a bit too hard and rough. "Gentle," she instructs, his thumb rubbing her nipple suddenly and she gasps. He is sliding her bra off now, burying his head in her hair, kissing and biting at her neck. How she'll explain it if she gets a hickey she doesn't know and right now she doesn't care.

She shoves him backwards and he falls back to sit on the bed as she strips out of her pants, sliding her underwear off after. He is staring openly at her, and she realizes she is probably the first naked woman he's ever seen in real life. She comes towards him, realizing he is still wearing his socks, and normally that sort of thing would bother her, but right now she just wants to put her body on his. And then she's on top of him, kissing, and it's just skin on skin. And it's bliss, better than she ever thought sex would be or could be. It almost reminds her of someone else, another time and place she tries desperately not to think about.

She rubs his chest, his arms, his back, and he returns her gesture, gripping firmly. They explore each other, mapping each other's bodies in a way that makes Natasha feel like he is everywhere at once. She feels hot and overwhelmed, desperate to reach the destination they are roaring towards.

She runs a hand along his body, gripping the length of his cock in her hand again. He bucks up against her and she ruts up against him.

"Fuck," he says again, with more feeling this time. She spreads her wetness against him, rubbing her clitoris against his lower length. "Natasha," he says, "Do you..."

She looks at him, and he clearly wants to vocalize something, but he seems pretty far gone and incoherent. "We don't need to use protection," she tells him. "There isn't anything you can do to me."

He frowns, his sex-fogged brain trying to make sense of her statement.

"I can't get pregnant Steve," she says, "and you can't get sick with viruses or spread disease. So there's really no need, unless you want it." 

He looks at her helplessly, clearly wanting to ask questions. But she doesn't want to talk about her infertility now, doesn't want to have to think about what was done to her against her will. So she kisses him hard again, and she feels his length pulse against her. 

"Fuck," he says again. 

She pulls herself off of him, crawling up the bed towards the headboard so they can get more room. He follows the sway of her bottom for a few moments before following her. Rather quickly she notices. She turns over and lays on her back as he comes towards her, crouched on all fours like an animal. Getting the hint he crawls on top of her between her legs. He pulls back, staring at her and she wonders if this is the moment when he decides this is all too much for him.

"Are you sure?" he asks. His eyes are sweet and somber and she is overcome with emotion. She can't remember the last time she reached this point and someone asked if she was sure - she's pretty sure this is the first time. She wonders if the reason he's asking her is because he's unsure about what he wants.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," she tells him, running her hands along his shoulders. "There's a lot of other things we can do if you aren't ready or don't want to. Or we can just stop now."

He makes a frustrated sound, burying his face in her neck. She feels his hardness rub against her clitoris and she can't keep back the noise she makes. He rubs against her again, making her make the same noise, only louder. Soon he is pushing back and forth on top of her as she makes the loudest and most obscene noises she feels like she has ever made in her life. The genuineness of the sounds being pulled out of her surprises her. She is so used to performing sex, so used to making someone feel good about themselves, that she has almost forgotten what it was like to be made to feel good herself. 

"You drive me crazy," Steve groans into her ear, his voice sounding like it's full of gravel.

"Fuck," she gasps in response.

He leans back so she can see his face properly now. The need written there is obvious. She leans up towards him and he comes down to her, crushing their mouths together, and she can feel him pressing against her entrance now. She tilts her hips up, inviting him in. The head of him slides into her, and he gasps, his mouth open against hers, breath pushing out. He pulls out a bit, sliding in further, and the noise he makes is the hottest thing she has ever heard.

He kisses her then again, hard. He pushes himself out and in again, sliding fully into her. She gasps and he gasps with her, his body is flush up against her as he leans down near her hair, pushing in and out. She knows full well that he isn't going to last long, but she doesn't care. "Fuck me Rogers," she breaths into his ear, and he obliges with vigor.

She can feel an orgasm building inside her, elusive but still there, as he slides in and out. He curses again, calling her name. She can feel how hard he is, how desperate and needy. She whispers obscenities into his ear, urging him on, and he gasps and groans, coming apart at the seams. He loses his rhythm soon, pushing into her and crying out. She can feel something on her that feels like tears, and she holds him as he shudders and comes back to himself. 

He pushes back, looking down at her. The slick sweat slides between them as he pulls out and their mutual wetness floods the sheets. It should be disgusting, but somehow it doesn't bother her. She pushes him and he rolls onto his back, looking up at her on top of him. She hasn't orgasmed yet and if she does one thing in life right, she wants it to be teaching Steve Rogers how to properly make a woman come.

"You going to help me out or just leave me hanging," she teases him. 

He smiles up at her and she leans down to kiss him, threading the fingers of her hands with one of his, guiding it to her clitoris. He rubs his fingers on her, and she is so close. She makes a desperate noise, urging him on. She lets him go and the hesitancy, his newness, is apparent immediately. But he quickly gets the idea of it, making swirls around on her clitoris, rubbing back and forth. He must be using her noises as a guide, she imagines, because when she makes a loud noise he keeps doing the same motion. 

She can feel her orgasm building again as she ruts against him. Her mouth is hanging open now, and he urges her on, using the kind of language she wasn't sure he even knew. She orgasms in a rush against him, feeling heat rush through her like a flood. Afterwards he is still rubbing her, and she grabs his hand to still him, nearly falling off of him in her haste. The sensation is just too much. She feels like she has no control of her limbs. She is just a legless, limp creature. She flops beside him, gasping, and lays on her back next to him.

Eventually she looks over and he is smiling at her. She has to shut her eyes against the brightness in his expression. The sex is easy, but the after part never is. At least not for her.

He doesn't talk much, and for that she's grateful. Eventually they get up and shower, him watching her the whole while out of the corner of his eyes. He thinks he's being sneaky, so Natasha lets him get away with it. There's so little happiness in both of their lives, she figures he deserves it. 

She winds up taking longer than him, and when she gets out of the shower she expects to find him in her bed. But he's standing at her bureau instead, looking at her few pictures. She walks up behind him, and realizes he's looking at a picture of Clint and his family with the same vacant staring expression she had on earlier when she was thinking about Bruce.

"Nice, huh?" she says, to break the silence and let him know she's there.

He startles a bit, looking over at her, naked and still slightly damp from the shower. "Yeah," is all he says in reply. 

"You guys never really guessed about him did you?" she says, because she figures she should say something. He is standing still as a statue with his thousand yard stare plastered on his face, and to be honest it's scaring the crap out of her. Hopefully he doesn't regret what they've just done. For her sex is just sex, but for him she knows things mean more. Everything means more for Steve. It's both the greatest blessing and curse of being him, or so she supposes.

"No," he says, looking back at the photo. She isn't sure if it's pain or yearning in his eyes, but she longs to wipe it away. "I didn't know he was... it just seems so normal." A pause. "For people like us."

And there it is. 'People like us.' It explains everything to her. "Normal is overrated," she says, trying to sound flippant, but her voice falls flat. 

She slides her arm into one of his, tugging him towards the bed. His skin feels ice cold. He follows her obediently. They avoid the wet spot and settle in, him cuddling a lot closer to her than she is usually comfortable with. But something in his expression looking at Clint and his family makes her feel like he shouldn't be alone tonight. He falls asleep fairly quickly, and his breathing is slow and deep with light tones of snoring every so often.

Natasha knows she should disentangle herself and leave Steve to sleep and then wake in her bed alone. It would send a much clearer message about how she envisions their relationship. But Steve is so warm and her eyelids feel so heavy. Against her own will, she feels herself falling further and further into sleep.

She really needs to find a way to tell Steve that the time she was shot in Odessa was not the first time she had run into the man known as the Winter Soldier. But is there ever a good time to tell someone that you slept with their presumed-dead best friend? Especially after you slept with them too?

She isn't sure what she'll do as regards Bucky Barnes. But she knows that if she and Steve ever sleep together again, she'll have to make him take his socks off.


End file.
